His Mother's Favourite Son
by illuminata79
Summary: And now for something completely different ...
1. Chapter 1

A story of someone we know, told through the eyes of his mother.

This character (I won't yet say who, I want to see if you can guess it before it is revealed!) has fascinated me for quite a while and had me wondering where he came from.

* * *

„Ah, Maureen, there you are!" Orla's broad grin, strong ivory teeth in a rosy face, flashed at her from behind the gleaming cash register towering on the counter. "I've got –"

She had Brendan and Moira with her, so she shook her head, just a curt, quick jerk, but it was enough that Orla understood and checked herself with a little cough.

"I've got some particularly lovely apples, I was going to say, and I _might_ still have a slice or two of apple pie, too."

She paused slyly for effect and raised her eyebrows at the kids.

Brendan's mouth hung open expectantly, and Moira turned shyly towards her mother and whispered, "Can we, Mom? Or haven't we got enough money left?"

Maureen bit her lip, both because they were indeed in dire straits again and because a six-year-old girl should not have to be so terribly sensible as to ask this question if she wanted a treat.

Orla winked and rose on her tippy-toes to wordlessly pass each of the children a fat slice of pie across the counter.

"You know you're not supposed to do that", Maureen murmured from the corner of her mouth while she paid for the rest of the groceries.

"You know I don't care what you think I'm supposed to do", Orla murmured back. "And by the way, here it is." She reached under the counter and slipped the big brown envelope into Maureen's basket, tucking it carefully out of sight of curious eyes behind a couple of cabbages and a paper bag containing potatoes.

She needn't have worried for the moment. Neither of the children had noticed the little stealthy transaction. They were too occupied munching their pie and licking their fingers, and they grinned contentedly when they finally waved Orla goodbye.

Back home, Maureen sent them off to play in the street for a while, glad they didn't seem to wonder why they had not been told to help put the groceries away or to take care of some other little task. They were still young enough to simply accept anything good that came their way.

She lugged the heavy basket up the front steps and watched from the kitchen window until Moira's ginger plaits and Brendan's chestnut curls had disappeared around the next corner, hoping they wouldn't come home all filthy again.

But even if they did, she was ready to make a sacrifice and wash out their patched hand-me-downs in the kitchen sink after they'd gone to bed. Anything just to have ten minutes for herself and the contents of the brown envelope before the rest of the gang would descend on her and crowd the cramped place almost to bursting.

She took a deep breath and carefully closed the kitchen door before she took the envelope from the basket and began to peel away the flap, her heart pounding as she read the return address.

She loved all her children, she surely did.

She loved foul-tempered Niall and easy-going Katie, Kieran the whiner and Francis the stoic sufferer, spindly Moira and pudgy Rose, Brendan, who looked so much like herself, and Joe, who was the spitting image of his father.

There was a special place in her heart for Shelagh, who had only lived for three hours, and for Connor, who had not lived at all outside her womb, and for Stephen, taken by the measles when he was barely two and a half.

But, shameful as it was, there was one among them whom she loved just a teeny bit more. She knew that a mother should not feel such a thing, but she couldn't help it.

The one who had been gone for so long but was not buried in the churchyard of St. Clement's with his brothers and sister.

The one whose name was never spoken around the house any more, except maybe in hushed tones among the older children when Luke was not home. Brendan, Joe and Moira had been born too late to have any memory of him at all.

She whispered it under her breath now, although there was nobody home to hear her.

 _Ryan._

Her eldest living son, born a couple of months before poor little Stephen had died.

She didn't even have a photograph of him because there just never had been enough money to have one taken.

All she had was pictures in her mind, images she hoped would never fade, of a beautiful young man, tall and lithe with wild black curls and sparkling green eyes that had tiny golden lights in them.

He had been a beautiful child, too, with those large eyes and luxurious black lashes, soon willful and stubborn, soon sweet and funny and exuberant.

Growing up, he had still been quite a handful, his moods changing faster than the weather on the Irish coast.

More often than not, he had a been petulant and rebellious teen, with a scathing tongue he employed frequently against anyone who crossed him. Maureen had quickly given up washing any of her children's mouth with soap for using bad language because it just wasn't worth the while, but Ryan had been the worst, a veritable potty-mouth if there ever was one.

And yet, he could be immensely charming if he put his mind to it, which explained why he usually got whatever it was he wanted, from her and from most anyone else.

He had been an excellent impersonator, too. There was no one he was not able to imitate to perfection. Niall, Katie and Kieran had often shrieked with laughter when he tripped across the kitchen floor with tiny little footsteps, gathering invisible skirts and chirruping sweet nothings in the trilling tone typical of Luce McKenzie, the little floozy from next door, or paraded about with a grave look on his face and spoke mock blessings in an unctuous voice that wasn't hard to recognize as Father Brennan's.

She hoped to God the good Father had never got wind of how cruelly and accurately her son often mocked him.

He had always seen the best in the boy and even turned a blind eye when he and some friends had sneaked into the vestry well before Mass to drink most of the altar wine, leaving Father Brennan with hardly enough wine to fill half a cruet and with four swaying altar boys.

Any other priest would probably have caned them, making sure they wouldn't be able to sit for a week.

All Father Brennan had done was make them kneel and pray for an afternoon and promise solemnly they would never do it again.

She wryly remembered Ryan and his best friend Dylan Kelly serving in church, heading the entrance procession on festive days, with Ryan proudly swinging the censer and Dylan ceremoniously carrying the incense boat, or kneeling on the altar steps, their youthful faces appropriately grave, eyes cast earthward modestly, singing the responsories in their strong young voices.

While stocky Dylan had always appeared a little awkward in his vestments, Ryan seemed to have been born to wear the white pleated surplice with its inserts of lace and the blood-red, emerald-green or purple cassock underneath, standing perfectly tall and straight, the model of a good Catholic boy with the looks of a dark-haired angel or saint.

There was a picture of St. John the Apostle in her _Lives of the Saints_ book in which the favourite disciple of the Lord Jesus bore a striking resemblance to her handsome son, or so she thought.

For a while, she had cherished secret hopes that he might even enter the seminary.

What a priest he would have made with his beautiful face and his lovely voice, which had broken into a slightly gravelly, enticing tenor. He'd certainly have been what Orla liked to call a "Father What-a-Waste".

Ryan's charms, however, had certainly not been wasted on the female specimens in the neighbourhood.

He had been barely fifteen when she caught him and Maisie Bell half-naked in the shrubs by the river, and she had lost count of the girls whose hearts he had broken after that.

After he left school, he had begun to work at Dolan's grocery store. That had been before Orla and Shane took over, back when old Jack Dolan was still in charge and ruled the place with an iron hand.

Unpacking crates, replenishing shelves, doing small repairs and making home deliveries had been all he was allowed to do at first, but once, when the old man was out with a head cold bad enough to make even a man of Jack Dolan's format surrender and stay in bed, Maggie had asked Ryan to help out in the shop and sent tongue-tied Shane out back to supervise deliveries and repair the storeroom door.

It hadn't been long until he had secured himself a permanent place behind the counter with his silver tongue, complimenting old ladies and flirting with young housewives, talking them into buying this slice of cake and that tasty chunk of cheese in addition to what they had actually wanted or needed.

On various occasions, he spontaneously climbed onto an upturned crate and put on a little impromptu show for the entertainment of the regulars, impersonating a well-known person or two or singing an Irish ballad. Maureen had never found out if it was true that he had once even jumped onto the counter to dance a jig to which he whistled the tune himself, but she wouldn't put it past him.

Jig or no jig, it was a fact that all the women in the neighbourhood loved Dolan's charming young shop assistant, half of the men hated him, and Jack Dolan had to admit that Ryan was a natural with customers and grudgingly let most of his flamboyancies fly, only chastising him when his jokes became all too bawdy or his mockeries too disrespectful.

The younger kids eagerly waited for his return every night. More often than not, he didn't come home empty-handed but with some leftover vegetables Maureen would use for supper or with small sweet treats for the little ones, sometimes even a bit of good tobacco which he would roll into as many cigarettes as he could and share them with Luke and later also with Niall.

Maureen cherished those rare moments when the three of them were peaceably smoking outside the front door, Luke leaning against the windowsill and the boys lounging on the doorstep.

The sad truth was that Ryan and his stepfather did not get along very well. She had never quite found out why, but she guessed that they were just too different.

Luke was a hard-working, gloomily silent man, toiling in Kennedy's sawmill for a pittance. He was wary of Ryan's flirtatious streak and happy-go-lucky nature, and she also had a feeling that he begrudged him his easy job at the grocery store.

But most of all, he hated the fact that Ryan was his mother's darling. She had never been able to hide entirely that she had a soft spot for her eldest surviving child, despite – or just because of? – the circumstances of his birth.

Luke knew what nobody else but Ryan and herself knew: Maureen had been married twice, but neither of her husbands was Ryan's father.

Everybody thought that he, like baby Stephen, was Raymond's, and he looked the part with his dark curly hair and fair skin that tanned quickly, but Raymond had not touched her since their first son had been born.

Their marriage had not been a happy one, and he had begun to satisfy his considerable appetites elsewhere ever since her belly had begun to swell.

If she was honest, she had not minded too much that she was spared his drunken groping and grunting and all the rest.

What she had minded was being left vastly alone with a baby and all the housework and no two pennies to rub together.

More and more often, Raymond had not even bothered to come home at night, and what little money he gave her barely sufficed for her and Stephen to scrape by.

If it hadn't been for Orla, her oldest, truest friend, she wouldn't have known how to bear it at all.


	2. Chapter 2

_28 years earlier_

One muggy summer afternoon, she was trudging home from the market with a fussy Stephen on one arm and a tattered basket of groceries dangling from the other.

She was hot and sweaty, she knew she smelled bad, Stephen was bawling, and there was a huge blister on her heel that her shoe scraped painfully with every step.

Ida Macaulay, that little busybody who lived three doors down, had just thrown out a bucketful of dirty water and left a wet patch on the cobblestone. Trying to both keep Stephen's shrieks away from her ear and not to lose her basket, Maureen did not notice and slipped.

She managed just so to stay upright and not to drop the baby, but the rickety handle of her basket chose this very moment to finally break. The basket fell to the ground, some apples spilled out, a paper bag of potatoes, two onions and, of all things, the four precious eggs.

She saw them fall in slow motion and numbly watched as one after the other smashed and, as if that wasn't bad enough already, her little packet of sugar tumbled out as well and landed in the yellow puddle the eggs had made.

"Oh, _flaming_ hell!" she cried out in frustration. She had been saving up for the eggs and the sugar for weeks so that Stevie would have a small cake for his first birthday, and now it all lay in a slushy mess at her feet.

She didn't make any effort to save the sodden package, only crouched down to pick up the apples and the potatoes and one onion. The other had rolled into the street and got crushed by a horse-drawn cart, but Maureen was past caring.

Stephen sat on the dirty ground beside her, silent now. He had stopped crying for some reason and was looking at her with earnest, big eyes, his thumb in his mouth, while she was trying to figure out how to get the boy and her remaining shopping home.

Something about that look shattered her completely. She let the ruined basket lie and hoisted Stephen up, pressed her nose into his fine fair hair and made no effort to pretend she wasn't crying.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

Maureen bit her lip and didn't look up. She did not want to see anyone, nor did she want anyone to see her in that state she was in.

Who was that anyway?

She was sure she didn't recognize the voice and the unfamiliar accent and hoped to God the stranger would go away.

"Miss? Are you alright?"

She nodded quickly, still not looking at the speaker, wishing he'd toddle off finally, but he didn't.

"Are you sure you don't need help with this?"

 _Shove off already,_ she thought, _leave me alone!_

"Let me carry this for you. Please."

She finally turned her head resignedly and saw a young man with dark curly hair and shining green eyes who had already picked up the broken basket, cradling it in his arms.

"Fine, if you won't have it any other way", she sighed, shushing Stephen who had begun to cry again. "It's just over there." She realized he was still looking at her and added by way of explanation, "Where we live. Down there, with the flower by the door." She pointed to where a single sad-looking sunflower was drooping in the heat.

Without another word, the stranger walked the short distance to her front door and waited there until she had caught up.

She pushed the door open with her elbow and nodded at him to follow through into the kitchen, indicating with another wordless nod that she wanted him to leave the basket on the table.

He set it down with slow, deliberate hands, all the while looking at her intently.

First, it annoyed her for no reason she could name, but she realized quickly that he was not in fact ogling her like some of those leery bastards in the neighbourhood often did. His gaze was soft and thoughtful, and she found herself saying, "Thanks for helping me. And sorry that I cried. It was just ..."

She suddenly found herself telling him all about Stevie's birthday and the cake she had wanted to make for him.

When she finally managed to stop babbling, she added sheepishly, "Oh well. You probably never wanted to hear all that. You must have other things to do. Sorry for keeping you …"

"No need to be sorry", he said in that foreign accent she still couldn't quite place. "I'm glad I was able to be of assistance."

With a little bow and a tip of his hat, he was gone.

Maureen shook her head about herself and the stranger and began to unpack her groceries.

* * *

She placed a tiny clay vase containing a spray of daisies in the center of the table, but it was too small and didn't do much to distract from the chipped plates and the threadbare tablecloth.

She snorted and turned away to put the kettle on.

Orla was due to arrive in a few minutes to celebrate Stevie's birthday, if you could call it a celebration when there was nothing to be served but bread and strawberry jam and the child's father was missing, too.

To Maureen's great disappointment, Raymond hadn't shown up in days.

She had all but stopped caring whether he came home at night or not, but she had dared to hope he'd want to be present for his son's first birthday, for Stevie's sake.

Sometimes she almost wished he'd never come back and she'd be free.

Only that she wouldn't. She'd still be a married woman. She would only be free if he …

No. She mustn't think such a wicked thing. It was a sin to wish death upon a person. She cringed at the thought of confessing it to Father Dearborne, imagined the wounded look and the gentle but firm reprimand he would have for her.

Stephen squealed gleefully behind her back and threw his shapeless rag doll at her, bringing her back to reality.

She picked it up and tossed it back at him with a little whoop, and he grabbed it and whacked the floor, giggling so loudly that Maureen almost missed the knock on the door.

"Listen, Stevie! That'll be Auntie Orla. On time as always", she said and, keeping an eye on the boy from the corner of her eye, walked to the front door to greet her friend.

Orla was grinning broadly and handed her a small covered bowl. "Here's a little treat for you and Stevie. Peaches and cream. Now where's my darling birthday boy?"

Stephen came toddling towards his auntie, beaming adorably. He had only just learned to walk and was still quite wobbly on his feet.

Orla swept him into her arms, cuddled, tickled and kissed him until he was squealing with delight and squirming happily. Over the joyful noise he was making, Maureen would have overheard the timid knock on the door if there had not been another, bolder one.

For a second, she wondered whether Raymond had made up his mind to come home for Stephen's birthday after all, but of course he wouldn't have bothered knocking.

"Come on in!" she cried.

Nothing stirred.

With a frown, she strode over and opened.

And froze with the doorknob in her hand, utterly perplexed.

"I thought I'd supply the cake for Stevie's birthday, after your little mishap yesterday."

She stared at the large wrapped package and was almost shocked to realize that the fine paper must be from Mulvanney's, the expensive bakery downtown. She had often admired the delicious-looking treats in their huge window and marveled, not entirely without a sting of bitterness, at the fact that some people actually could afford to spend such breathtaking amounts of money on things as frivolous as cakes and pastries.

The hands that held the package out to her were smooth and long-fingered, not the dirty, callused palms and cracked nails of those who worked in the factories and mills.

They belonged to the helpful stranger who had saved her the day before.

She stammered her thanks and realized what she had not noticed the last time: the good quality of the grey suit he wore and his spotless white shirt.

What was a man like him doing here, and what had brought him to this part of town in the first place yesterday?

She couldn't think of anything proper to say for a moment.

He was speaking, but the words didn't get through to her until he said, "I hope you'll have a nice afternoon with your little birthday boy. You have guests, I see."

He smiled – he had a beautiful smile, wide and sincere and very charming – and bowed a little stiffly from the hip, about to retreat from the doorstep.

 _Don't go,_ she found herself thinking.

Where had that come from?

She couldn't possibly ask a complete stranger in just because he had brought a cake for Stevie and she liked the way he smiled.

"Thank you so much again", she said. "That was the loveliest thing to do."

Words failed her once more, and she watched him step down to street level with another twinge in her heart.

"Wait!" she blurted out. "Do come in, please, and have a cup of tea. If you have the time, that is. I mean …"

She blushed, mortified about her mindless stammering, and broke off.

Had she made a complete fool of herself? He was surely used to much better food and drink than what she had on offer. And wasn't it totally inappropriate to invite a man, a perfect stranger in?

Certainly, he was bound to feel that way and find a polite excuse not to accept.

Instead, he looked at her freely with those warm, beautiful eyes and said, "With the greatest pleasure. Thank you."

He took his place at the modest table with the grace and dignity of a nobleman sitting down for a festive dinner at court. He didn't seem to mind at all how rickety everything was.

When he introduced himself to Orla, who had forgotten her usual equanimity and stared at the good-looking, well-dressed surprise guest with saucer-sized eyes, she finally heard his name for the first time.

Jean-Marie Montfort.

So the faint accent she had noticed was French.

He told them he had grown up in France the son of a French father and American mother and only been in the States for three years to attend medical school at Boston University.

In the course of their pleasant chat over tea and cake, he mentioned that he had been in the neighbourhood because he had promised to look in on a friend's elderly grandmother over in Grant Street who was suffering from a persistent weakness and couldn't afford the doctor.

She liked that.

He was almost too good to be true. Handsome, caring, smart, with not a grain of snobbishness or arrogance about him, although he was clearly a well-off, well-educated, well-travelled man and the way of life he was used to was as different from hers as it could possibly be.

When he took his leave and said he hoped their paths would cross again, she smiled, but she didn't think he meant it literally.

There was that pesky little voice in her head again: _Pity he doesn't._

* * *

Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, and the sobbing didn't help matters.

"Easy does it, Maureen. Easy. Breathe. Slowly. In and out. In and out. Yes, that's fine." Orla gave her friend's arm a quick squeeze and whipped a clean handkerchief out of her apron pocket. "Here. Blow your nose and, in the name of the Holy Virgin, quit crying finally. He's not worth all those tears you're wasting. He got what he deserved, if you ask me."

"But it's my …"

"Lord, give me strength!" Orla cried out, theatrically rolling her eyes heavenward. "It is _not_ your fault, Maureen, you silly girl. It isn't. How could it be your fault when that nincompoop goes to work drunk and gets himself killed? Every child knows that liquor and bandsaws don't mix."

"But I told you I once …"

"Maureen, anyone who never would have wished Raymond Cleary dead would be a sure candidate for sainthood. It's a fact that you married a useless, cheating drunkard, and it was a crying shame, the way he treated you, and how he never was a father for Stevie, and how he bonked that cheap little trollop instead of …"

" _Orla!"_

Orla allowed herself a quick grin, glad she had finally managed to startle Maureen out of her misery.

"I'm only telling the truth, and I don't want to hear you saying it's your fault ever again! You take good care of yourself now, and of little Stevie, that's all what's important. You know I'll be there for you any time you need me, and I'm sure one day you'll meet a man who truly deserves you. And don't go tellin' me I'm being tasteless. You were way too good for that waste of skin." When Maureen gave her another look of horror, she hastily added, "God rest his soul."

She proceeded to hug her friend closely to her chest and said, "I'll have to go now if you really don't want to come along, you know Shane wants his supper at seven. I'll be back tomorrow." She squeezed Maureen's arm affirmatively and, with a last encouraging smile, walked out the door, feeling a little guilty about leaving her friend alone with her sorrow.

She almost bumped into another visitor on the doorstep.

"Good evening, Mrs. Dolan!"

"Good evening, Mr. John Mary, or whatever you're called!"

He grinned wryly at the greeting that had become their little ritual whenever they met.

They had met a lot at Maureen's since Stevie's birthday in the summer.

The young French doctor-student had taken to dropping by regularly to inquire about young Stevie's fragile health and to bring food or medicine or the odd little treat. When Orla had once asked him why he was doing this, he had simply answered, "Because I want to."

Maureen herself had begun to call him Sean, as she could not pronounce his name properly and it was the closest she could get, and he had indulgently accepted it.

When he had said that he was Johnny to his fellow students, she had snorted through the nose and said, "You're not a Johnny to me. A Johnny's an American farm boy with hands the size of frying pans and yellow hair. Not a learned foreigner like you."

Orla really needed to hurry now, so she said a quick goodbye and went on her way, relieved that her friend had continued company on this hard day.

"I've got the cough syrup for Stevie. Is he a little better today?" she heard him ask before she was out of earshot.

"Not really", Maureen sighed, and she felt tears creeping into her eyes yet again.

"This will help him get better. With the syrup, I'm sure he'll be fine in no time", he said in his reassuring voice. "No need to cry, Maureen. He will be fine."

She didn't answer, she couldn't. Her throat was choked.

"Maureen! What is it? Is there something else wrong with little Steve?" He sounded genuinely worried, and it didn't take more than a look at her face to confirm the impression she was upset by more than just a toddler's cold. He had never seen her so beside herself.

"Raymond", she sobbed. "Raymond. My – my husband. He's – he's …" She took a deep, ragged breath, and he wondered what could have happened to her bastard of a husband that would throw her off balance like that.

"He's _dead."_

He couldn't think of anything appropriate to say, so he held his tongue and simply let her weep at his chest, realizing with a pang of guilt that they had never been so close to each other physically and that it felt wonderful to hold her, even if the occasion was grim.

Much later, when she seemed to have cried all the tears she'd had in her, he examined Stephen, who had slept through it all with bright pink cheeks and a sweaty brow, and Maureen fixed them a frugal supper.

It was very late when he finally said he must go now, but she clasped his arm with both hands and implored him not to.

"Can't you stay, Sean? Please don't leave me alone tonight. I can't stand that."

Taken aback, he argued that, much as he might want to, it was improper for him to stay the night, especially under these circumstances.

"I don't care if it is proper. Raymond didn't care what was proper either."

She had a point there, he thought, and so he stayed.

She gave him an old nightshirt of her husband's, which hung about his slender figure sack-like, and, for lack of an alternative, they crawled into bed together, Maureen's marital bed of cheap rough wood and a fusty-smelling straw mattress.

He lay stiff and motionless at first, afraid to touch her, as far away from her as the narrow bedstead would allow, firmly wrapped in his threadbare blanket, certain he would not be able to sleep.

He awoke in the dead of the night with her slight body snug against his. She was fast asleep, one arm flung across his stomach, her breasts against his side, an innocent yet disturbing sensation.

Oh God, he thought when he felt a familiar stirring and hardening farther down. How utterly inappropriate.

He did not want to be indecent, not in this situation, he had no wish to take advantage of the poor girl's misery.

But, lying very still in the black winter night, Jean-Marie Montfort admitted to himself what he had known deep down all the time but never dared to admit because he knew she was married.

He was very much in love with Maureen Cleary.

The first feeble wintry light of dawn had just begun to lift the darkness when he felt her tugging at his blanket and shifting to move beneath it, until she was right there in his arm, with only the thin cotton of their nightdress to separate them.

When she pressed her nose into the crook of his neck, it felt perfectly natural to respond by laying the softest kiss on her cheek, and it felt just as natural to embrace her, to watch her peel off her nightshirt in the half-light and slip right back under the blanket because the room was cold, to warm her with his body and, eventually, to give himself to her as completely as she gave herself to him.

They both knew what people would say if they heard what they had just done, but neither regretted anything. Not Jean-Marie, because his biggest secret wish had been granted at long last, and not Maureen, because for the first time in her life, she had felt entirely safe and secure and truly loved in a man's arms.

He sneaked away in the early morning hours, trying not to smile too brightly when he nodded to Ida Macaulay in passing. Better that she should think he had sat watch by sick Stephen's bedside all through the night than to have her guess the truth.

* * *

Six weeks later, a faint suspicion arose within Maureen after she had awoken queasy and slightly nauseated for eight days in a row.

Another two weeks later, she was quite certain that a new life had sprung from their clandestine encounter on the night after Raymond had died.

She knew she ought to feel ultimately ashamed, but what she really felt was cautious joy tinged with worry how she would manage to get by with two little children and no husband.

Sean did not appear too surprised when she told him, and he dispelled her fear of an uncertain future with the simple promise to marry her.

"I wanted to ask you anyway, once the period of mourning was over", he said. "And don't you worry what people will say if we do it earlier. We'll find a place to live in a nicer part of town, so you won't have to face all those old gossips from the neighbourhood."

"I don't mind those old gossips all that much, but a nicer part of town would sure be lovely", she had replied, and he had continued, "May is a good month to marry, I think. Father Lewis at St. Vincent's won't mind that you're with child already. He'll assume it is your first husband's."

Everything taken care of so easily was a novel experience for Maureen, whose life had been so much hardship and sorrow and want until now, but she certainly wouldn't complain.

She gladly agreed to all he suggested and began looking forward to her new life as Mrs. Montfort, with a modest but comfortable home and a loving husband and a pair of sweet kids. Hopefully, Stephen would thrive in his new environment and outgrow his frequent illnesses, and the new baby would never cry himself to sleep with hunger, as Stephen had sometimes done at the worst of times.

And maybe she would even get to go to France one day to meet her in-laws. She, who had never travelled any farther than the city center!

Sean arranged for the wedding to be held the first week of May, a small ceremony at St. Vincent's, his neighbourhood church, with only a couple of his best friends and Shane and Orla to attend.

Orla was over the moon and busily made plans for Maureen's dress, which her mother was going to sew, and for the wedding cake, a homemade affair to rival Mulvanney's best which would be her own gift to the newlyweds.

For the first time in her life, Maureen had a serene and happy view of her own future.

Her waist had thickened considerably, and she even thought she had sensed the first flutter of movement inside her. They were already thinking about the baby's name, arguing whether this one was too Irish or that one sounded too French, and Sean was about to rent an affordable, pretty little house not too far from the university.

Maureen had said an apartment would be more than fine, but he had insisted that they should have a house, small as it might be, with a strip of lawn the children could play on and a tree to hang a swing from.

She had never imagined it was possible to be so happy.

She was humming to herself as she boiled the potatoes and prepared the vegetables for their Saturday dinner.

Once again, Sean had charmed the grumpy butcher's wife into setting two beautiful pork chops aside for him to pick up at the back door after hours. He should be back with the meat any minute now, and they'd have another little feast.

Oh, how she loved this man, bless his kind and generous heart.

Stephen loved him, too, he always scampered towards him as fast as his little legs would carry him and squeaked with glee when Sean spun him round in a dizzying circle. In those past months, Sean had acted more like a father towards the boy than Raymond ever had.

Now, Stephen was playing on the kitchen floor beside her and kept looking at the front door as if to ask when his big friend was finally going to arrive.

"Sean will be here soon, Stevie. Very soon!" She smiled at him, and he grinned back and banged the floor loudly with the old wooden spoon she'd given him to play with.

But there was still no trace of him when the clock of St. Clement's struck seven, or half past.

Stephen started getting cranky, so she fed him quickly and put him into bed, absent-minded and anxious.

This was not like him at all.

If something had kept him from coming, he would have found a way to give her a message, as he had done before, sending one of his friends or the daughter of his landlady.

At a quarter past eight, there was a rap on the door at long last.

She jumped up from her chair and opened hastily, ready to scold and kiss and hug all at once.

She was so sure it would be him that she had already flung out her arms by the time she realized it was Shane on her doorstep. His face was even whiter than usual, and his voice was trembling when he spoke the words that shattered it all in a brief flash of shock.

"I don't know how to tell you, Maureen … your Sean … he was attacked by a gang of thugs when he tried to help a woman they were harassing. Old Sal, you know, her who's not quite right in the head. Old Sal jumped and bit one of them and Sean tried to fight off the others. The butcher's neighbor saw it all and ran to help him, but by the time he'd caught up, they'd shaken her off and scarpered, and Sean …" He paused and swallowed.

"Shane? What about Sean?" Maureen urged, although deep down she already knew the answer.

The butcher's neighbor had arrived too late.

* * *

Something died within her that night.

She thought she was going to be consumed with the pain when she saw him for the very last time, lying on her knees in the street dust beside him, staring in grief and horror at the slumped figure of the man she loved. His fine face was unblemished but for a thin thread of blood at the corner of his mouth, but there was more blood matting the curls above his collar and staining his shirt and not a spark of life left within him.

Something more died when Stephen succumbed to the measles. With nobody regularly checking on his health, he had once again become susceptible to any bug that was rampant and an easy prey for the disease when it ravaged the neighbourhood in the next winter.

She went on somehow, but there was no joy in what she did, except when she was tending her youngest and now only son.

That the baby had not come to any harm with all that had happened was a small miracle to her.

He had not only survived it all, but he was a strapping little chap with a healthy appetite and a sunny temper.

Sometimes her heart almost burst with love for the small chubby creature when he grinned at her toothlessly, and sometimes she could hardly bear looking at his shock of fine dark hair and his huge hazel eyes because they reminded him so much of his father and made her want to cry yet again for the future that would not be.

When she said her prayers in the morning and at night, all she asked for was that he should grow up in good health to be a vital, handsome man like his father had been, while she half feared that even those fervent, faithful pleas might not be heard.

She had all but given up expecting anything from life and from God.

She had been aiming too high and thus been brought back down to earth with a crash.

Happiness was not for her, it was a luxury for those who could afford it. All there was to life for women like her was working hard and praying and raising their children as best they could.

It was more out of reason than anything else that she agreed to marry Luke Reilly about a year later.

Luke was a young widower with a small son who lived just on the other side of St. Clement's. His wife had died giving birth to baby Niall, and he had managed to make do all right with the help of his sister until she got married and moved to another town. Left to his own devices, he was quite desperate.

Maureen knew and liked him well enough to say yes when he asked her out.

She was disappointed by their outing. They went no farther than Rory Cavanagh's run-down pub and had a rather frugal meal of mash and greasy sausage, a far cry from the simple but fine dinners she had enjoyed so much with Sean.

But she knew this was probably as good as it could get for her now, and in the end, it just seemed the logical thing that she and Luke would tie the knot, for the sake of their sons if nothing else.

So they went to St. Clement's and solemnly swore to love and honour each other and to accept the children that God might send them.


	3. Chapter 3

_17 years later_

And how God had sent them children.

Sometimes, she hardly could seem to remember a time when she had not either been pregnant or nursing or carrying a toddler on her hip.

There were six of them around the house, with Rose still in diapers, and the beginnings of a seventh gave her nausea in the morning and a general draining feeling of fatigue.

She knew all that from her previous nine pregnancies. She knew she would somehow get through that tiring phase once again. All she had to do was simply go on and on even when she thought she was going to faint there and then, which had never actually happened and probably wouldn't ever.

She was not going to complain.

She had no right to. They were not living in abundance, but there was a warm fire in the hearth and dinner on the table every day, and the children might be wearing hand-me-downs, but at least they were clean and healthy and able to go to school instead of working from the earliest possible age.

She had long ago stopped dreaming of the things she might have had if events had taken a different turn, like fine winter coats or silken dresses or good, new clothes for each child that was born.

She had learned to be grateful for what she had.

There was a crash, a shout, and Kieran came stomping into the kitchen, cheeks flushed with rage, and began to tell a lengthy story about how Francis had done him wrong.

Maureen only half listened and sighed inwardly. All that bickering, all of the time. Like a madhouse.

"What's the matter, Kieran?" a breezy voice called out from behind him, and a big hand appeared and ruffled the boy's dark hair. Seconds later, Ryan's whole tall figure appeared in the doorway. "Feeling hard done by _again?_ Who's it this time? Frank or Katie?"

"Frank, of course. He said …"

"Hey, you're a big boy, aren't you? You won't let your _baby_ brother get you down with a few stupid words, will you? And haven't you said nasty things to him at times, too?"

Kieran pulled a face and grudgingly nodded.

"C'mon, Kee, give me a smile. No reason for looking like a month of wet Sundays. I can't possibly take you to the game tomorrow with a face like that. No way. No way at all. So sorry." He shrugged theatrically and tilted his head with a melting look of sadness and regret.

Very slowly, Kieran's face brightened until he grinned crookedly at his oldest brother.

He adored Ryan, who could make him do just about anything, while Maureen often found it hard to cope with Kieran's sullen, moody nature and was quick to lose patience with him.

"That's better. Now be off with you, it's past your bedtime already. I'll see you tomorrow." Ryan clapped the young one on the shoulder companionably.

Kieran disappeared without another word, and Ryan bent to kiss his mother on the cheek. "I'll get going. Don't wait up for me again. You need your sleep. Bye then!"

He turned to leave, but Maureen caught him by the sleeve. "Ryan … is that your good suit? And your best white shirt, too! Don't you think …"

"Mother, don't you worry, I'm not going to get into any trouble tonight. I intend to keep those garments impeccable. Angela Derringer is going to be there with her brother, which means I'll have to look my best and my most serious and trustworthy." He winked conspiratorially, and Maureen couldn't help laughing.

"Well then. Go and be serious and trustworthy."

She wished he would for once. She had scrubbed her fair share of dirt and blood from her elder sons' clothes in the aftermath of many a Saturday night on the town that had come to a messy end.

Niall at least had enough sense not to wear his very best for those occasions, but Ryan was incorrigible. He was very particular about his appearance and more likely to go hungry than to wear anything remotely shabby or unfashionable.

She couldn't really blame him.

He was handsome and he knew it, there was no changing that, and Angela Derringer was indeed a nice girl, not one of those immodest slatterns you saw so often these days. Hopefully, something serious would come out of that fling they were having. She would not mind having Angela for a daughter-in-law.

Sweet fantasies of Angela and Ryan on their imaginary wedding day were floating through her mind as she went about her work, tidying up the kitchen, looking in on the kids to make sure they were in bed.

Before she went to bed herself, she stepped out into the yard to take down the laundry she'd hung out to dry in the morning. Better not leave that outside during the night. Last time she did, Ivy Hollis's cat had ripped up the skirt of Katie's best dress, nasty little beast.

Coming back to the front of the house, Maureen cast an idle glance down the street and frowned. A bunch of figures was staggering along in the light of the dim gas lamp on the corner.

Drunks, either on their own or in clumps of two or three, were a familiar sight on Saturday nights, but something was wrong about these two men supporting, or rather dragging, a third between them, who had apparently had so much that he could hardly keep his feet.

The noise, Maureen realized. It was the noise that was missing. There was no inebriated singing, no shouting, no good-natured insults, no stopping to throw up noisily in the gutter.

What was more, she knew those boys. That was Anthony Dupree on the left, and the unmistakable stocky build of Dylan Kelly on the right.

It was rare seeing Dylan Kelly without Ryan Cleary by his side on a Saturday night, she mused, but Ryan was probably still charming the pretty Angela under her elder brother's watchful …

"Oh no", she groaned tonelessly as the unfortunate threesome drew nearer and she got a closer look at the young man in the middle, limp and lurching between his friends, at the dark hair that fell over his face, at his head lolling forward, at the huge stains of something dark across his shirt front, at the hand that clutched at his chest.

Another messy Saturday night after all.

Too much booze, drinks, or worse, spilled on shirts and trousers, a dreadful hangover in the making, and, in all likelihood, there had been yet another fight.

She dropped her laundry basket, wanting to hurry towards them, with a good mind to give him an earful about drinking himself half unconscious again, but she froze when they passed below the next street lamp and she became aware of the menacing red blossom on his white shirt, glistening with wetness.

Her hand went to her mouth as if on its own account, and then they had reached her, faster than she'd thought they would, and she cried his name and he looked at her for a second and took a step into her direction before his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed the same moment she flung out her arms for him and her knees buckled. They went down together and made a bumpy landing right on their own doorstep.

Dylan just stood and stared, shaking all over, before he turned away to be sick behind a trash can, while Anthony was stammering incoherently, trying to tell her what had happened.

Maureen heard him speak but couldn't make any sense of what he was saying other than "stuck him with a knife". She didn't ask who or where or why.

All that mattered was the heavy slack body in her lap and the blood, so much blood. It didn't make a difference who was the bastard that had pierced his heart.

She cradled Ryan's head against her chest, her eyes riveted on his beautiful face, so deathly pale against the ominous red that drenched his shirt and was beginning to stain her dress, too.

Silent tears were running down her face. How many times had she held him like that when he was a child, when he was ill or tired or simply wanted a cuddle? How could this have happened to the most promising and the most beloved of her children, his young life ending when it had hardly begun?

He stirred feebly, drew a shuddering breath and lay very, very still.

An inhuman, drawn-out cry exploded from her mouth, and she held on even tighter to her son's shoulders.

Somebody grabbed her by the arm and shouted something. Feeling put upon, she tried to shake the annoying hand off her sleeve.

"Mrs. Reilly! Mrs. Reilly, please!" a voice insisted. "Please let me have a look at him."

She knew that voice. It belonged to Sid Collins, the doctor who lived just around the corner.

What was Dr. Collins doing here? What business did he have looking at her dead son? Couldn't they just leave her alone with him this last time, just for a while?

She kept her gaze down on Ryan's white-lipped face and almost screamed when his eyelids began to flutter and his mouth twisted painfully.

"Dear God in heaven! You're alive!" she whispered.

He blinked at her and moaned, "Aw, Ma … let go of me, please. That … fucking … hurts!"

"Ryan! Mind your language!"

There were some chuckles from the small crowd that had gathered without Maureen ever noticing it.

She kept clutching his shoulder and kissed his face, and he let out a pained yelp. "Ma! _Ouch!"_

Only then did she realize that the knife had not gone into his heart at all.

There was a small rip in his shirt and an oozing gash in the flesh just below the left collarbone, in the very spot her thumb had pressed into.

"Sorry", she murmured contritely, retracted her hand and wiped it on her dress.

Anthony and the doctor helped Ryan, who said he was very dizzy, get up and sit beside her on the doorstep while Dylan angrily shooed away the gawkers.

By the light of the small lamp Ivy Hollis had been quick to provide, Dr. Collins removed the tatters of the bloodied shirt and inspected the injury. The knife had gone in deep, but it didn't seem to have damaged anything vital.

"You were lucky that your opponent was either too drunk or too sensible to go for your heart", Dr. Collins declared, setting about cleaning the wound. He fell silent as he stitched it up quickly and began to chat again when he applied the dressing. "I can't promise you won't get a slight fever, but that should pass quickly. Anyway, go easy on your left arm until this is properly healed. And try not to get into another fight too soon." Collins accompanied his advice with a little wink and an avuncular pat on Ryan's good shoulder and took his leave.

Biting his lip in pain, Ryan shuffled inside the house, leaning heavily on Dylan's shoulder.

Maureen, still weak in the knees but with relief now, made him a bed on the kitchen sofa. Sharing a bed with his brothers wouldn't do with his injured shoulder. With a look at his greenish face, she put a tin pail in place beside the sofa, just in case.

Just as she was finished, the door opened a crack, and two anxious little faces appeared. Kieran and Katie, clinging to each other tearfully.

"Ma … what's wrong with him? 'S he gonna die?" Kieran's voice quivered as he spoke.

Katie's huge glistening eyes asked the same question.

Maureen, instantly feeling bad because she had not thought of the other kids in her fear for her eldest, went and hugged them both to her side. "No, Kieran. God willing he isn't. He's been very lucky as it seems, and the doctor says he'll be all right. Now off with you, back to bed before the rest of you lot wakes up!"

The last thing she needed was the rest of her brood traipsing downstairs and getting all hysterical about their brother's mishap.

Obediently, the pair of the disappeared, heads down, faces solemn.

She pulled up a chair and watched Ryan sleep by the flickering light of a candle, now and then checking his brow for a rise in temperature and keeping an eye out for any telltale red seeping through the bandages.

Sleep overcame her at some point, and when a bang startled her awake, it took her a moment to realize where she was.

She straightened up and laid the back of her hand on Ryan's temple once more. It felt rather warm to the touch, so she rose to dip a clean dishcloth in water to make a cold compress. She was not going to take any chances.

The moment she placed the cool cloth on Ryan's forehead, the kitchen door flew open, a tall thin figure teetering in the doorway.

"Where's the bastard?" it roared.

" _Luke!_ Shush! You're waking the kids!"

"I don't care if I wake the kids! Can't learn early enough what their fine bastard brother did!"

Maureen leapt to her feet and hissed, "Don't you call him that, Luke Reilly. Don't you dare."

"It's what he is, a bastard, isn't it?" he brayed. "Anyway, I want him out before the morning!"

Maureen wanted to slap him. "Have you drowned what little brains you ever had in your friggin' whiskey? He's _hurt,_ you moron, and he's running a fever. He's going nowhere before he's better!"

"Did your fine little darling tell you how it came about that he ran into the wrong end of a knife?" Luke had to steady himself against the doorframe, but his speech was surprisingly clear. "Tried to throttle Niall, that's what he did. Had him by the throat and wouldn't let go of him, so can you blame the poor lad for trying to defend himself?"

"It was _Niall_ that stabbed him?" Maureen asked, aghast.

"Sure it was! And it is Niall that's on the run now, 'way from the police. Sent me a message through Calvin Jenkins, said he was gonna join the Navy rather than go to jail. Might well never see my boy again, and it's all _his_ fault!" He jerked a thumb at Ryan, who lay silent and unmoving, cheeks reddening with the fever, the white dressing across his chest and shoulder almost glowing in the murky candlelight.

Maureen buried her face in her hands.

Niall, of all people. Her stepson who had already had numerous run-ins with the local police. Last time he got into a fight and hit another young man over the head with a bottle, Officer Wells had promised him he would not turn a blind eye again. Niall had appeared to see the light and got himself a job at Jim Loughlin's warehouse, working hard and keeping his temper in check.

Until now.

This was a disaster. Niall was as much his father's favourite as Ryan was hers, and even though she refused to believe that it had all been Ryan's fault alone and Niall certainly wasn't all innocent, Luke would never forgive him.

She decided to remain silent.

Speaking up in Ryan's defence would help neither him nor her when Luke was in that kind of mood. Generally a sullen, silent man who rarely raised his voice or even spoke much at all, there was no telling what he would do when he flew into one of his booze-powered rages, and there was sheer murder in his eye now.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, stop blubbering", Luke barked at her. She dropped her hands to her sides to let him see she was not weeping at all and stared at him defiantly.

Unblinking, he pulled his own sheathed knife from his pocket, pointed it into Ryan's direction and coldly said, "He's out by the morning or I'll see to his pretty face. The girls won't be fawning over him quite as much when he's as ugly on the outside as he's on the inside. And I don't ever want to see him cross this threshold again."

With that, he turned, stomping out the front door to God knew where, and left Maureen to her terror.

She fell to her knees beside the sofa and studied Ryan's beautiful features in the candlelight, drinking in every detail, the echoes of that other horrible night almost twenty years ago resurfacing in her mind, of that other beautiful face framed by black curls, so utterly still and cold.

As the first thin daylight began to dawn, he stirred and woozily mumbled something.

She stroked his hot cheek with a lump in her throat. His shoulder felt warm, too, even through the bandages.

He would certainly not be going anywhere in this state, that much was sure, but she was just as sure that Luke would make good on his threat when he found him still there in the morning.

When Luke had not shown up by six o'clock, she made a decision and some strong tea.

She managed to wake Ryan from his feverish sleep and got him to drink two cups of tea while she explained things to him and outlined her plan. Then she helped him into a fresh shirt and his shoes, threw his jacket round his shoulders, stuffed some of his clothes from last night's laundry into a shopping basket and covered them with a large napkin.

With the basket over one arm and the other around Ryan's back, they slowly walked out the front door.

They had barely turned the corner when Luke came tottering back home and cursed wildly when he found the kitchen empty.

Fifteen minutes later, Maureen was back with a large plate of cake and a packet of coffee beans in her basket.

Luke was sitting at the table, drumming his fingers on the wood, and wordlessly nodded at the empty sofa with the crumpled blanket still on it.

"He was gone when I came downstairs", Maureen said without batting an eye. "Must've heard what you said and done a runner."

"Well then, good riddance." Luke bared his teeth in a sneer and studied her face for a moment. "You don't happen to know where he went?"

She shook her head and hoped to God she would not blush.

She turned to empty out her basket and made herself smile. "We'll have a good breakfast after church today, just the thing after all that commotion of last night", she said breezily, marveling at her own acting skills. "Orla's sister had a big celebration last night for her birthday, and Orla said to come over in the morning and pick up some of the leftover cake. So that's where I was. She gave me some of the coffee for good measure. Isn't that a treat?"

Luke's mouth twitched into a half-grin. "Sure it is. I'll go and wake them kids. We don't want to be late for Mass, do we?"

They were not late for Mass, nor did anything else change.

Other than that Niall was in the Navy now and that nobody ever spoke of Ryan again, because Luke wouldn't allow it.

With time, the older kids' memory of their flamboyant big brother faded, and the smaller kids couldn't remember him anyway, having been born after his departure.

But the wound in Maureen's heart was one of the sort that time cannot heal.


	4. Chapter 4

She sat on the kitchen sofa with the opened envelope in her hands, savouring the anticipation for another minute or two.

Nine years, almost to the day, since she had taken him to Orla's in the wee hours of the morning, where he hid out until he was well enough to board a train for New York, the place that had always intrigued him, sure he would make it there.

It had also been Orla who'd helped her find out what had really come to pass between Niall and Ryan that fateful night. Her brother-in-law had been at the dance hall, too, at the next table even, and he had seen Niall trying to feel up a girl who had clearly not been interested in him. Ryan had ended up grabbing him by the collar because he'd paid no heed to the girl's resistance, not even when she began to scream in panic.

Not that it would have brought her son back, but it was still a bit of comfort to know that he had simply wanted to do the right thing.

Oh, what would she have done without Orla in all these years, her friend and conspirator, who had played the go-between for Ryan's letters ever since he had left?

She finally pulled out the smaller envelope, ripped it open and extracted the folded sheet of paper.

Sometimes it felt like these letters were all that kept her going.

They hardly ever came more than two or three times a year, but they came, messages from a different world, written in generous flourishes on sheets of whatever paper was at hand. There had been fine cream-coloured vat paper as well as flimsy grey slips so thin that the ink seeped through.

This time, it was pale green stationery, a strangely feminine choice. She wondered what girl he had nicked it from.

When she unfolded it, another, smaller piece of paper fell to the floor, a stiff, yellowish material.

Picking it up, she became aware of the serrated edges.

A photograph!

Her heart beat faster at the sight, and even more so when she saw a second one still tucked inside the envelope.

Despite her excitement, she forced herself to read the letter completely before she took a look at the photos.

Reading her son's words was delicious in itself. She could almost hear his smoky voice speaking to her.

 _Mother dearest,_

 _Just wanted to tell you I am fine. Really grand indeed!_

 _Imagine, they have at long last recognized your favourite son's talent and_ _finally_ _had the good sense to offer me a leading role! And guess what, it is not even another of those brooding villains on a horse (frankly, I was getting rather sick of everyone saying things like 'nobody smolders as beautifully'). Not another of those roles in which the audience is all too happy in the end to see me die a horrible, well-deserved death. And certainly not one of these abominable walk-on roles!_

 _It is a beautiful part in a strange and wonderful play called "Illuminata". It was written by Tuccio himself, and it is very much unlike everything I've been in before. I'm not even sure I understand it entirely myself, but it is incredibly touching and so beautifully staged. I wish you could be here to see it._

 _The first night was a big success, and we've been sold out for ten consecutive nights after that. We're all completely beside ourselves!_

 _This also means I'm getting paid decently for once. I will be very glad to send you some money, but only if you allow. I don't want you to get into trouble with that creep I fear you are still married to._

 _But even if you prefer me not to send any cash, I have a special treat for you today._

 _We had a photographer over after the dress rehearsal, and I bought some prints and thought it was high time for you to get a photo or two of your successful actor son. I hope you won't be too disappointed at how much I have aged. Myself, I prefer thinking I'm not too bad for a man close to thirty. At least I have no grey hairs yet!_

 _Simone sends her love, too. You know, the girl I told you about. We decided to give it another try together. She can be very difficult and very sensitive, but hell yes, I think I love her! (Oh yes, I can hear you telling me to mind my language. Don't you worry, I usually do, except when I don't.)_

 _Hope all the little ones are well, and, most important, so are you. Don't let the creep get you down. And maybe you'll want Orla to keep the photo for you, just to be on the safe side._

 _Yours ever,_

 _Ryan_

 _P.S. What do you think of my new name? Orla says it is ridiculous and refuses to address me as Dominique Montfort, but I like to think my father would be pleased._

Maureen couldn't help blinking away some tears, and she found herself shedding some more when she looked at the first photograph.

The scene depicted was slightly disturbing but also very beautiful. There was a tall, slender woman with an ageless, wise face, her hair piled high on her head, wearing a filmy white gown, sitting very upright on a stool or chair at the front of an otherwise bare stage. Beside her on the naked floor knelt a young man in a white tunic, his head resting in the woman's lap, lavish dark curls mussed, eyes closed, a strangely intimate and somewhat sacred image.

Ivy Hollis's words on the night of Ryan and Niall's fight rang through her head. "You was lookin' like one of them statues of the Virgin Mary, them with poor dead Jesus in her lap!"

She had thought the remark rather tasteless at the time, but it did seem fitting in retrospect. She had been a mother grieving for her son for endless minutes, and it had seemed as miraculous as the Resurrection when she realized that he was indeed alive and not even gravely hurt.

And here he was in all his glory nine years later, alive and more handsome than ever.

The second photograph was even better than the first. It almost took her breath away. In this, he was looking just past the camera, a dreamy, thoughtful look in his eyes and tiny almost-smile playing around his mouth, as if he had just remembered a pleasant little secret.

His face had filled out a little, and some of the boyish softness and vulnerability that used to be there was gone, but this was a man at ease with himself and his life, it seemed.

A man very much like his father.

She made herself put the photographs and the letter away when she heard Brendan and Moira coming back from wherever they had been playing.

When they came bursting into the kitchen, asking "What's for dinner?", she had everything well hidden away and was standing at the table chopping onions, just like she did on any other day.

Only Francis noticed that something was different when he came home from work later that night.

"Ma, you've such a lovely smile tonight. You oughta smile like that more often!"


End file.
